Chapter Text
Surpass Your Master
by shellz_chainedheart
Part One: Only Human
Kenneth Irons sat upon the end of his bed, wrapped in a black silken robe, staring out the window into the snow. It seemed colder this year--slow and meaningless. His life-long search for the Witchblade was complete, and he could not have it. Sara Pezzini, that damned homicide detective, was the new wielder, and was impossible to manipulate. That, too, shall change. He mused, a cynical smirk drifting across his pale features. He had no idea what time it was—he had awoken suddenly and now brooded. The gray light of winter shown outside, so he suspected it was sometime in early morning. The fire still burned in the hearth near his bed, but the warmth did little to thaw his angry heart.
A light tap at the door was his only warning before Ian pushed the door open and stood before the fire, eyes down, staring at the floor. Kenneth startled, but composed himself quickly. He should be used to Ian entering suddenly; he’d been responsible for his training. Still... Ian had shown renewed willpower recently regarding Sara, and it disturbed Kenneth nearly as much as his loss of the Witchblade. Ian stood still, wearing his typical outfit of black upon black. Kenneth sighed.
"Ian.." He said, still looking out the window, "..Why do you think the Witchblade has punished me so?" Ian’s gaze rose slowly from the floor to stare steadily at his master. He remained silent. Kenneth didn’t seem to notice.
"Sara Pezzini is a remarkable woman, and it doesn’t surprise me that the Witchblade has chosen her as it’s newest wielder. She has passed its test, and now seems a completely different woman. She is still blind, however, to the things right before her." He continued, his voice very low and sharp. He side glanced Ian quickly, and went on.
"Her Partner—" he began.
"Jake McCartney." Added Ian, his gaze shifting back to the floor. Kenneth’s gaze narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
"Yes, McCartney. He has joined the White Bulls. The same league that was responsible for Sara’s Father’s death." Kenneth frowned, smoothed out his robe and stood up from the edge of his bed. He motioned for Ian to step forward. His arm snaked out quickly and he grasped Ian’s jaw firmly, raising it to stare directly into his eyes. Ian’s jaw flexed instinctively, and he stared back at his master.
"You must take care of McCartney. He cannot be responsible for Sara’s death—either indirectly, or directly. If Sara dies, You die. Remember that." Kenneth watched for any sign of reaction in Ian’s dark eyes. He didn’t expect one, and he didn’t get one. Ian merely nodded, bowed slightly and stalked out of the room. Kenneth still felt the warmth of Ian’s cheek against his hand. The feeling was as familiar to him as Ian himself, and yet Kenneth feared his time with Ian was growing shorter. The greatest favor you can do your master, is to surpass him. Ian’s time was growing near. Kenneth smiled wryly and walked to the oak dresser.
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Ian walked slowly down the halls of Kenneth Iron’s mansion. The wood creaked softly below the heavy steps of his combat boots. The mansion was silent. Kenneth and himself were the only two present in the entire estate. The hallway was elusively dark this morning. Candles lined the wide hallway. The light flickered shadows across Ian’s impassive features, as he walked back towards his room.
‘If Sara Dies, You die. Remember that.’ As though I could forget an order. He allowed a quiet sigh to pass his lips as he pushed open the door to his room. The door made no sound as he opened it. His master may change his room and vehicle every day, but Ian preferred consistency. He trusted his skills enough to know he could protect himself if someone did—though unlikely—enter his sleeping quarters. Irons, however, was aging and could no longer depend on his own skills to keep himself alive. Ian took small pleasure in that fact, and kept it hidden deep. What will I do, if ever Irons is no longer my master? He wondered slowly, surveying his room and listening intently.
Upon his bed, lay his folded clothing. On a rack above his headboard, his katana lay sheathed. Ian looked it over quickly and efficiently. Nothing had been moved. Remembering his orders from Kenneth, he began to take his shirt off to change. Pulling off the black over shirt and undershirt, he folded them and set them on the hamper by his door. He rolled his shoulders slowly and twisted, cracking the bones along his neck and spine. Flexing his arms Ian watched as his muscles rolled across the scars he held. Walking to his desk, he pulled out the first drawer.
Inside the drawer lay a Navy Seal’s underwater knife, sheathed in a strap-on hilt. Lifting it out of the desk, he strapped it tightly across the upper part of his left arm. He then returned to his bed and pulled on a clean black tank top, and then another over-shirt. Sitting on the bed, he unlaced his boots and set them down near the end of the bed. Putting on new black socks, he pulled a pair of dark pants and secured another knife sheathed on the outside of his right thigh. Pulling on a clean set of combat boots, he secured throwing knives on the outside of each boot, and checked the mechanism on the front of the boot. The blade worked well, and he licked his finger, cleaning off a bit of blood from the Irish Massacre that stayed on the boot’s blade. Dressed once again and his body conditioned to work, he turned and looked at his katana.
It had been a long while since he had wielded the smooth blade. It was his preferred weapon; the weapon of an honorable shogun, given to him long ago by Kenneth. He had taken so many lives in the name of his master, that his blade was visible tainted with blood. The shine the blade had originally was dulled by the layers of death that lay across it. Reaching out slowly, he lifted the sheath and straps from the board.
A slow knock on the door made him pause. He recognized the light pattern to be that of Irons, and continued to lower his katana. His door was pushed open slowly and Kenneth stepped threw, dressed now in a savvy black and navy blue suit.
"Ah, you’re ready. Excellent." He said, his voice had lost its hollow demeanor. Ian set the sheath across his back and sheathed his katana with the shrill sound of the metal sliding into its ancient casing. Ian nodded solemnly.
"I received a phone call a few moments ago. It seems you’ll have a chance to watch Sara under more...respectable circumstances." He waited for Ian to reply. Ian said nothing. Quirking a brow suggestively, he looked at Ian.
"Captain Dante, placed the phone call. He was asking more questions concerning the whereabouts of Sara during the Irish Massacre. I continued to back up McCartney’s story…" He leaned against the doorway with a yawn.
"Needless to say," he continued, "..this seems to vex Mr. Dante. Before he hung up the phone, he informed me that there was a banquet tonight in honor of his new position as Captain of the 11th Precinct. He does not know it is Vorschlag that is playing host. I plan on being present, and therefore—so do you." He smiled impishly and looked Ian over. He clicked his tongue and crossed his arms across his chest.
"I realize, Ian, that you’re not accustomed to courting women, seducing them, drawing their reactions from them as you please.. Of course you’re not, you’re innocent as far as sexuality goes. However." He raised a finger firmly.
"Sara has recovered from her loss of Concobar, with the help of The Witchblade. She is only human, after all, and we humans have but one purpose—to live, to breed, and to die. With the exception of me, of course—I live to own the Witchblade. But I am not entirely out of their league. I live, I breed, and someday, I will die. Not without the Witchblade." He watched as Ian looked back at him blankly.
"My point, Ian, is this: Although you are without the experience of a sexual person, you are not without sexual appeal. You are alluring, charming—and damned if you can’t be seductive if you try. And you will try, tonight. I want you to seduce Sara. I want you to warn her about Jakes’ intentions. I want her to trust you, and I want it done tonight. Do you understand?" Ian startled. Not visibly, but his stomach tightened with anxiety. Seduce…Sara? I..kill, I do not..love. I cannot..love her, not like that..not ever. His mind wound around his heart and he stood still for many moments. Kenneth watched him, knowing this would disturb Ian very much. After a long and uncomfortable pause, Ian looked Kenneth in the eyes.
"..Like you, Master," He said, quietly, "..I am human. I shall live, breed, and someday, die as well." He paused, calculating his next move. He looked to the floor once again, and spoke:
"Though I am not without a heart. I am your bodyguard, your assassin, your loyal servant, but I was never trained to seduce. I was never trained to break someone’s heart. I cannot—" As he spoke, Kenneth stepped forward and slammed the back of his hand across Ian’s jaw. Ian was caught in mid-sentence, and didn’t attempt to defend. He took the punishments from his Master like a loyal dog, and if he was wrong, he was wrong. He felt his lip split upon impact, Kenneth’s ring having caught it sharply. Blood trickled slowly down to pool beneath his lip. His face still turned to the side. He said nothing.
"You can. You will. And you will do it tonight." Said Kenneth, pulling out a silken handkerchief to clean his hand of Ian’s blood. Ian still faced to the side, staring blankly at the floor. Kenneth’s eyes narrowed once again. Ian knew he was ready to inform him once again of his duties. Kenneth tossed the bloodied handkerchief on Ian’s bed, and stepped towards Ian.
"Look at me." He barked, demanding Ian’s attention. Ian turned sharply to stare at his master.
"Good." Irons brought his hand back and backhanded Ian across the other cheek. Blood spattered from Ian’s busted lip and from the new slash across his cheek. The wound burned and seeped blood sluggishly. Ian turned his head back slowly to face Kenneth.
"I will instruct you personally today upon seducing Sara. The Witchblade has shown me her desires, her dreams—Her time with Concobar. All her time with her lost lover. You will be her new lover. Tonight. And threw you, I will get what I truly want."
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Sara lounged at her desk, sipping a hot French vanilla latte, compliments of her partner. Though she felt much better since last week, her work was stockpiled on her desk. Jake was still taking the bulk of the assignments, and it was something Sara thanked him for every chance she got. His training was going well, and he seemed to be a little detached lately. Sara shrugged it off and circled a line on the paper she was working on. Biting the end of the pen, she studied the case before her. A chuckle from her open door way made her look up.
"Hey dude," said Jake, as he walked into the office. Sara rolled her eyes—she still had trouble adapting to his West Coast-surfer vocabulary.
"How’s the case?" He asked, picking up her latte and taking a sip, barely avoiding Sara’s swipe as he stole her drink. She cast a glare then said:
"Hell, like usual...I’m still working on the case for Gabriel.. I hope he’s feeling better by now." Jake nodded and set down Sara’s latte, half drained, and grinned.
"Well, then, I’ve got some good news. Dante just announced a banquet tonight in honor of himself, as the new Captain of the 11th precinct." Jake watched for her reaction.
"Don’t remind me." Said Sara with a sigh, as she shuffled threw the papers on her desk.
"You’re missing the point, Sara." Said Jake. Sara only glanced at him.
"And what’s that? Dante’s throwing himself a party—seems like a good occasion to get some sleep." Jake shook his head with a laugh.
"You get to relax, to take a load off…To get dressed up, for once, you know—something other than blue jeans and a t-shirt?" Sara looked at him accusingly, and quirked a brow.
"Yeah, well…I’d rather be sleeping. I’m sure he’s made it mandatory?" She crumpled up the paper she was working on and tossed it at the garbage can. And missed.
Captain Dante leaned down from standing in the doorway, and picked up the crumpled trash.
"With your aim, Pezzini, it looks like you might spend your time down at the shooting range, and not at my party tonight." He smirked and looked at Jake and Sara.
"Oh, and yes, Ms. Pezzini, it is mandatory. I want you all to be there. Got it?" Before either of them could answer, he turned and walked back out of the office. Sara sighed again.
"Fine, whatever. Jake…get outta here, I need to get my work done." Jake winced teasingly, grabbed her latte, and followed after Dante.
Sara reached into her desk and pulled out a folder. Opening it, she pulled out the files that Gabriel had dropped off about the Witchblade. Closing the folder, she stood up and walked to her door, closing it and drew the blinds. Sitting back down, she disconnected her phone and turned on the radio. Oh, like that’s not suspicious at all, she thought with a smirk. No time. I need to read these over so I can stop by Gabe’s tonight before the banquet. The first paper on top of the file was simply labeled: "Kenneth Irons." Sara set it aside. The next file was labeled "Hitler, Adolph." Flipping threw the papers, Sara read about Hitler’s extensive collection of antiques.
Hours later, when she was finished reading the files that Gabriel had collected, she went back to the file on Kenneth Irons. He seemed to be connected to everything. Everyone. And most of all, to his bodyguard, Ian Nottingham. Kenneth...what’s on your mind? What are you planning? ..Why do you have Ian protect me like you do? Her mind wandered as she thought about Vorschlag and the cases she’d been studying lately. ‘There are no consciences.’ She remembered, and shook her head. Well, I’ll get to this later tonight. For now, I need to go and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to wear to the Dante’s vanity ball. Plugging her phone back in, she set the files back in the folder and placed them in her desk, locking the drawer. Picking up her jacket, she headed for the door.
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Pulling her motorcycle to a halt, Sara took off her helmet and turned off her bike. The snow fell all around now, a heavy storm had started shortly after she had left the precinct. Hugging herself tightly, she quickly made the steps to her apartment and entered. Walking up the stairs to her door, which was on the second story, she welcomed the stuffy warmth of the apartment complex. She heard laughter in a room as she passed by the door, and blushed when a moan and giggle followed shortly after. Smirking, she pulled out the keys to her apartment and unlocked it, walking in.
Typical of Dante to warn us all of a formal gathering only hours before it happens. I’m sure the Mayor will be there, along with officers of the other precincts. Pealing off her leather jacket, she tossed it on her couch and made her way to the kitchen. Pulling her tea kettle to the sink, she filled it with water and set it on the burner. Outside her window, the snow continued to fall. As she opened her cupboard to find her teabags, her phone rang. Setting the bags on the counter, she picked up the phone.
"—Pezzini, Yeah?" She asked, watching the stove.
"Hey Sara, you’re not at work anymore," the voice was Siry’s. Sara smiled.
"Joe... nice to hear from you again. Listen, I.. I went threw the box that you gave me, and I.. just, wanted to thank you." The conversation paused.
"..Of course, Sara. Anyways, I called about the banquet tonight. Are you planning on making it? If so, I’ll be seeing you there." Sara heard the slow smile in his voice. Sara nodded.
"Yeah, Dante says everyone’s gotta be there, and I didn’t think he’d let me slide." She smirked, and walked to the stove, setting out her coffee cup. Siry sighed.
"I’m sorry, Sara. I didn’t know that Dante would have such a grudge." Sara frowned.
"A grudge, Joe?" Joe cleared his throat, but went on:
"Oh, it’s nothing Sara. Listen, I’m busy right now, but I’ll catch you at the banquet. Bye Sara, take care." Siry hung up the phone. Sara frowned and set the phone down. She leaned against the counter and waited for the tea pot to scream.
Joe.. I can’t thank you enough for giving me that box. I’ve.. found out a lot about myself in these past few days. She smiled faintly and turned to stare out the window. Snowflakes drifted and spun in the wind outside, making her feel warm and comfortable in her own apartment.
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Jake walked out of the precinct in the snow, his boots crunching nosily against the pavement. It wasn’t so cold outside as it was stuffy and closed in, like it always was in the Winter in New York. Cold, lonely and closed. The cold made his bruises hurt. His body still ached from when that madman Ian Nottingham had nearly killed him. Out of habit, recently, he brought his hand up to touch his recovering jaw. Scowling despite himself, he shoved his hands in his coat pockets and walked on. The bastard, first in the interrogation room, then when I was working out.. And Sara.. He sighed, confused, stopping on the sidewalk. What about Sara? He wondered with a slight frown creasing his brow. A scent drifted in the air and he started walking again, heading out for a snack before going home to get ready for the banquet.
The place where he and Sara would’ve taken their lunch—had she not headed out early—was a local little dog stand on the corner near the precinct. He could smell the vendor from where he was. His mouth watered and he picked up his pace. Food..that should take my mind off.. of everything. That, or surfing, and there’s no surfing in this weather. The banquet’s in about two hours, I’ll have plenty of time.
Footsteps crunched behind him in the snow and he tensed.
"McCartney," came Dante’s voice, "..there you are. Where’s your partner?" Dante walked a little faster and caught up with Jake, falling into a slow stride along side him. Jake shrugged.
"She left about fifteen minutes ago, said she had to get home and get ready for the banquet." He mindlessly kicked at a clump of snow on the ground. Dante nodded, clapping Jake on the shoulder reassuringly. Dropping his voice as they walked, he said:
"So..have any questions about the..White Bulls?" Dante quirked a brow, quizzically. Jake shook his head slowly.
"..What White Bulls?" He asked, with a grin. Dante gave him a quick wink and kept walking.
"That’s a good lad," He said, nodding, "..Care to get a drink before we head downtown?" Dante asked, cocking his head to the side. "You like beer, don’t you?" Jake grinned.
"Only if your buying," he chided, and Dante laughed stiffly.
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Kenneth Irons paced slowly and deliberately across the wooden floor. His servants had taken Ian away nearly an hour ago. Surely he didn’t need that much work getting dressed. Then again, perhaps he did. Ian was a very rugged man; and tonight—Irons’ had to make him rugged and seductive. In less than two hours. Kenneth reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a silver watch on a chain. He watched it tick, growing even more impatient with each passing moment. When he was finally seathing with frustration, the door to the waiting room opened and his servants came back out. A female bowed, avoiding Kenneth’s gaze, and spoke:
"Ian Nottingham is ready, sir." Then she swept away with the rest of the servants. Irons relaxed his shoulder, cracked his neck and waited. Ian stepped from the doorway, the shadows still cast over his features. He stood with his arms to his side, his hands clasped behind him. The firelight from the hearth flickered across his face, and Irons had trouble seeing him.
"Come into the light," Said Irons impatiently. He stopped pacing and sat in a plush arm chair near the fire. As Ian stepped from the doorway and into the light, Kenneth raised his brows.
Ian stood straight, in a suit of ebon silk with a tie. His hair was pulled back in a tight tail and bound at the base of his neck. He had been shaved—his jawline was strong. He wore his silver ring upon his hand and a beautifully crafted watch upon his wrist. His dark eyes stared back at Kenneth, reflecting the fire sinisterly. Irons shifted in his chair slightly, looking at Ian. An approving smile drifted across his lips. Standing up, he closed the gap between him and Ian to a few feet.
"You look stunning," Kenneth said softly, "..well worth the wait. Now," Irons turned and walked towards a set of wooden doors. Ian trailed slowly behind, hands still clasped behind him. Irons pushed the door open and motioned for Nottingham to go ahead of him. When Ian was in the room, Irons closed the door. The room was completely dark. Ian stood completely still. Irons moved around him in the darkness, across the room, and the sound of a switching being thrown filled the room with light. Ian narrowed his eyes to adjust to the new light, blinked once slowly, and turned to look at Kenneth.
"So, we begin," said Irons, walking back across the room. With his hand, he motioned to two chairs, and took his seat across from the other empty seat. Ian walked slowly towards the empty chair, and sat down.
I am..getting lessons on seduction from the one man who..possibly..could seduce anyone in their right mind. Perhaps even I..if I didn’t think him as trustworthy as a.. snake. Ian’s eyes clouded with thought, as he stared back at his master. Kenneth cocked his head to the side, watching Ian. Satisified with some unspoken measure, he began.
"Tonight, Ian, will prove to be a very successful one, only if you do exactly as I say. I have spent more than my lifetime honing the art of subtle seduction. In order for you to completely captivate Sara Pezzini, you must intrigue her, and I assure you—recently, very few things have that effect on her." Ian stared back, his expression unreadable. When he got no answer, Kenneth continued. He motioned for Ian to stand, which he did, and Irons laid a hand upon Ian’s shoulder.
"..There are..parts of the body, which are surprisingly vunerable to seduction." Began Kenneth, tightening his grip on Ian’s shoulder lightly.
"First and foremost, is the mind. Sara may perhaps still mourn the loss of Conchobar, but I believe the..Witchblade..has helped her deal with it..successfully. Life is created from chemicals, DNA, cells..." His voice faded and he let go of Ian’s shoulder.
"And now that you know the basis of manipulation, the basis of true seduction, Ian, I will teach you the art." Kenneth smiled, an expression very devoid of feeling.
"Given our extreme shortage of time, I cannot show you much, but there is one thing I know that can be taught in less than two hours time, and works like…a true charm." He arched a brow and motioned for Ian to stand up.
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Sara sighed as she entered the banquet. She was late, and had probably missed Dante’s speech entirely. It was a formal occasion, one which she would’ve liked to have slept threw, but she knew she was expected. She wore a simple crimson red silk dress than hung to the floor, with slits up the side. Over it, she wore her leather jacket, not caring for formalities. Inside her jacket, however, she concealed her magnum and badge. She was having trouble with the high stiletto heals she wore, and felt horribly awkward. A drink tray passed her as she walked into the room, and she snatched a wine glass. Not wanting to drink on the job, she made her way to the refreshments table. Pouring the wine into the trash, she refilled her glass with soda.
Everyone mingled and conversation blurred into an intoxicating hum. Somewhere in the midst of the party, a live classical orchesta played music. It was certainly a formal occasion. Sara recognized a few officers from the other precincts; Jake stood talking to a few of the female officers, and Dante stood talking to Siry. Not wanting to clash with Dante at the party, Sara made her way threw the crowd, and headed for the open balcony window.
A cool breeze blew in from outside, and she felt relaxed as she stepped past the velvet curtain. Outside, the music from the banquet was softened and she leaned against the railing, looking out over New York City. The banquet was on the thirtieth floor of an apartment building. Dante had rented out the entire floor for his party. The drop was disturbing to Sara. The Witchblade stayed quiet upon her wrist. Looking at the Witchblade, her mind continued to wander.
Well…I passed your test, Blade, so I hope you’ll live up to mine. I wish I had better informants than Kenneth Irons and his assassin lap dog. She sighed. The snow had stopped earlier, and the air was still chill. Her breath puffed out like smoke from her lungs, and she watched it fade away. She listened over the music and heard sirens from the city. It was the one familiar thing, aside from the Witchblade, present in her life. With a slow smirk, she raised her wine glass to drink.
Sara chilled when she realized someone stood behind her. Watching him from the reflection in her wine glass she set her glass down slowly. Her gun was just inside her jacket. She reached for it, very tediously. By the time she drew her .44 magnum, slammed the clip into it, and spun around—Ian was within a few feet of her. The wind blew a strand of her hair across her face, but her aim never faltered.
"..Hello, Sara," came Nottingham’s soft-spoken voice. His gaze traveled from Sara’s eyes, down her arms to look at the point of her magnum aimed at his chest. His face remained impassive. Sara scowled, looking at him.
"What are you doing here? Is Irons here as well? What’s this all about?" Her questions came one after the other, her gun never moved from his range. Ian stepped forward.
"Stay back, Ian—This is loaded and set on fully-automatic." Snapped Sara, tensing. Ian looked from the gun to Sara, his eyes fogged with some unknown thought.
"You can’t hurt me, Sara…Your Witchblade will not hurt me, and that.." His eyes shifted to the gun again, "..won’t hurt me." Sara quirked a brow, her grip shifting on the magnum.
"Seems a little cocky to me," She replied, her finger tightening on the trigger. Ian stepped forward quickly, and took her hand, training the gun slowly across his heart. Sara faltered, easing off the trigger. Ian let go of her hand, and looked into her eyes. He saw her fear, though he knew she tried to conceal it. She could conceal nothing from him, not now.
"It can, and damnit Nottingham, if you don’t get out of here.." She said softly, releasing the trigger completely. Ian watched her thoughtfully. Sara had apparently just seen him for the first time.
He’s…gorgeous, Damn.. Her thoughts mused, as she looked at him. Wow.. She frowned, lowering her gun. Has he always…been like this? She wondered, studying his face. No.. He had changed, somehow. He was clean-shaven, his eyes.…they seemed brighter than usual, he was dressed in real clothes this time, in a formal suit of ebon silk. He…he’s wearing..a..tie? Sara grinned despite herself.
"What is it?" Asked Ian softly. Sara only shook her head.
"You…You’re wearing a…tie. I didn’t think assassins had any class." She said, a little bitterer than she had intended. Ian said nothing. Sara put her gun back in her holster, which was strapped across her chest inside her jacket. The music changed in the background to something very sad. Ian held out his hand carefully.
"..Dance with me, Sara," He said, "..and I’ll show you, just how much class..this lonely assassin has." Sara arched a brow, looking at his hand. His ring was beautiful, his watch, his face.. Without realizing what she was doing, Sara reached out and took his hand, raising her other to rest upon his shoulder. Ian, with his deadly grace and charm, gripped her hand lightly and slid his other arm to her waist. The feel of his hand pressed against the cool silk of her dress was very different for him, and he found himself wondering if he could fulfill his orders. The music played on, and Ian swept Sara out into a slow dance on the balcony.
Sara knew that the two of them dancing was absurd. Ian was a killer, Sara knew it, and she was a homicide detective. It was like dancing a thin line of death. Sara could even be Ian’s next target, if Kenneth Irons really wanted to Witchblade for himself. Somehow it all didn’t seem to matter. She tried to relax. He really was a good dancer, he moved with the same grace he stalked his victims, the same smooth strides he took everyday as he followed her. She felt his hand tremble slightly against her waist and she wondered. He can’t…be, nervous, can he? She tried not to smile. She simply stared up at him, wondering what he was thinking beyond those dark eyes.
The wind picked up around the balcony and the wine glass set on the ledge flew off into the darkness. Watching it quietly, Sara turned back to look at Ian. He went ridged when she looked at him, visibly startled. Sara felt his grip on her hand shake slightly. She gripped his hand a little harder, helping him to steady. Ian pulled Sara a little closer, leaning his cheek against her hair with a sigh. The music changed again. They still danced.
What am I doing? Ian wondered, feeling Sara move slightly against him. This is... not who I am. I..don’t dance. I don’t... His mind drifted and he moved his mouth close to her ear.
"You’re in danger," he whispered, his lips delicately grazing her ear as he spoke. The motion made Sara shiver.
"..From who?" She asked, turning towards him slightly. Ian turned her as they danced and moved them back towards the edge of the balcony. No one else was outside, but he couldn’t risk his words drifting to lurking ears. He sighed again and continued.
"From Jake McCartney. From Kenneth Irons…and from me.." His voice was very soft. Sara pulled away and looked at him. She frowned, searching his face for a response.
"..Why.. from Jake? Kenneth? ..You?" She asked, confused. Ian lifted her chin up slightly to stare down at her.
"..Jake.. could hurt you, Sara. I was…sent to warn you.. Please. Be cautious." As he spoke he turned Sara again and they danced slowly to the edge of the balcony.
"..From Irons.. it is always the same." He mused, leaning Sara against the balcony.
"The Witchblade," replied Sara, feeling her back press against the cold stone balcony. Ian turned her so that he faced the balcony, and she was lightly pressed against them as they danced slowly. She still hadn’t heard his reasons. Looking at him, she quirked a brow.
"And…you?" She asked, gazing up at him. Ian closed his eyes. Sara watched him. His face altered to a mask of pain and confusion. For several moments, Ian stayed with his eyes closed, rocking Sara slowly as they danced. Sara sighed, and Ian opened his eyes.
"I..am a danger to you.." He said, leaning forward, inches away from her face, "..because of this," as he spoke he reached a hand up tentatively to cup Sara’s cheek. Sara looked up at him with a curious gaze. Ian leaned down and kissed her gently, his hand dropping from her cheek and waist. Sara stared back at him as he moved away from her and headed for the entrance to the balcony.
"..W-wait, Ian—" Began Sara, as Ian stalked back towards the party. He stopped. He stayed facing away from her.
"I have waited long enough, Sara. It is...time for me to leave." He started to walk again, and Sara moved forward, grabbing his shoulder. Ian reflexively spun around and grabbed Sara by the shoulder, his knife pressed against her throat. The knife pricked her throat, a bead of blood dripped down and spilt on shoulder. When he realized what he had done, he let her go and stumbled back, dropping the knife. Sara stared back at him, fear in her eyes.
"..I..I’m sorry.." He managed, before rising again to rush into the party. Sara reached up and touched her neck, where his knife had made a tiny nick. A small blotch of blood returned on her fingertips.
He.. I.. that was a.. knife, against my neck, but.. he.. She sighed. Ian was gone. The cold steel of his knife still shook her, and she rubbed her neck with a sigh.
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Captain Dante sat in his chair, chatting with a few of the other members of the "White Bulls." No one knew who they were, and would not know this group of officers was any different, except for one, who would be initated tonight. Seeing Jake walking towards the balcony, Dante called for him. Jake turned, grinned, and turned his course towards Dante’s table. Sitting down, he looked to his captain.
"Ah, there you are, McCartney." Said Dante, sipping his glass of wine. "Sara on duty tonight?"
Jake nodded.
"Yeah.. probably the only one sober enough right now, anyways." He said, as Dante filled a glass of wine and pushed it towards him. The captain nodded,
"Good, good. Listen," As he spoke, he leaned forward across the table. His voice was very hushed. The music drowned out most of the conversation around them.
"Sara is going to receive a phone call, very soon. She will have an assignment. You are not to accompany her. Do you understand?" Said Dante, looking to Jake with a stern face. Jake frowned, stopping as he raised his glass to his lips. Setting it down on the table, he stared at it blankly.
"..I’m her partner, Captain. She’s training me, I—" Began Jake, but Dante cut him off.
"Jake, you will not be accompanying Sara. It is…your test. No one fails their test." Dante winked at him quickly. Jake understood. Dante had asked him to join the White Bulls a few weeks ago and had mentioned a test that would involve his partner, Sara. As much as it sounded like a setup, Jake needed to be a part of the group. He wouldn’t follow Sara on her assignment tonight. Jake nodded and sipped his wine again. He would be a White Bull by the end of the night. Piece of cake, he thought, glancing over the rim of his wine glass. He nearly choked when he saw Ian Nottingham, the man that had nearly killed him a week ago, quickly crossed the banquet hall.
What is that bastard doing here? He wondered, setting his glass down again, emptied of wine. His vision was blurry around the edges. He had drank the wine a little too fast for his liking. Ian disappeared into the crowd. Jake stood up from the table, nodded to Dante, and walked off into the party. He checked his gun in his concealed holster. It was loaded. He smiled and regretted it moments later. His bruises still hurt. He had Ian to thank for that. He intended to pay him back.
Moving through the crowd, Jake grabbed for another glass of wine. He didn’t see Ian anywhere. The crowd seemed to blur around the edges. He sipped another drink of his wine. Still searching, he did see someone who could tell him where to find him. Kenneth Irons sat at a table near the door, consulting with his high class friends. Walking over towards the table, Jake looked to Kenneth.
"Ah yes, Mr. McCartney," Said Irons, as Jake approached. Jake nodded.
"I’m looking for your friend, Ian Nottingham," Said Jake, the words stumbling out of his mouth. With a frown, he sipped his wine again. Irons quirked a brow.
"Ian Nottingham is my employee. And I cannot say precisely where he is. I was under the impression that he was of his own free will." Kenneth sat back in his chair, crossing his hands over his lap. Jake smirked.
"Yeah, well, I owe your employee a real…’heart felt’ visit, I assure you." Without waiting for Irons to answer, Jake turned around and walked back into the party. Kenneth smiled smoothly and went back to talking amongst his companions. Jake sighed, setting his empty glass down on the refreshments table and headed back to Dante’s table.
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Sara sighed. Taking a final glance out over the city, she zipped up her jacket and headed for the party. The knife that Ian had dropped still lay on the cold cement of the balcony. Sara stared at it. A small speck of blood still remained on the knife. Checking the enterance, she leaned down and picked up the knife. It was made of finely crafted steel, issued by the Navy Seals. At the base of the handle it read: "Ian Nottingham, Black Dragons." Not wanting Ian to leave behind a trace, Sara tucked the knife away safely in her holster. She knew Ian would never have been so careless, had he not have been nervous. As she started walking back towards the party, her cell phone rang. Pulling her cell phone out of her jacket pocket, she flipped it open.
"What?" Sara asked, her voice harsh with stress
"Pezzini, you’re the only police officer on duty near the scene. Head down to North 56th street. Someone reported a break in and a potential gunshots fired." The voice was one of the interns at the station. With a sigh, Sara hung up and walked back into the party. It figures…I’m the only one here sober enough to handle anything more dangerous than a mouse right now. She felt the Witchblade flex around her wrist. With a hushed gasp, she pulled the sleeve of her leather jacket down. Not now.. She thought, looking for her partner. She found Jake sitting at Dante’s table, sipping a glass of red wine. Walking over, she jerked her chin towards the door.
"C’mon Jake, there’s been a break in down on 56th street." She looked at him, impatiently. Jake shook his head, lifting his wine glass.
"..Can’t, Pez.. had a bit too much to drink. You can handle it, I’ll catch you at work tomorrow." He grinned sheepishly and set his glass down. Sara sighed.
"Fine, whatever Jake.. Catch you later." Without waiting for him, she turned and walked off towards the exit. Kenneth Irons watched as she left.
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It was nearly eleven at night, the wind was freezing and the snow had frozen to the ground. Sara pulled her bike up on the curve of 56th street and picked up her radio.
"..Pezzini, here, you said 56th street, right?" The radio answered with static. Sara couldn’t understand the response. Lifting a brow, she shut her radio off and checked her gun. Her neck hurt from the cold—the tiny gash still seeped sluggishly. Drawing her gun from her holster, she began walking down 56th street. The city was silent. Sara knew something was wrong. 56th street was nothing but warehouses and broken homes. Well.. she thought, the snow crunching beneath stiletto heels, ..Lets just get this over with. She didn’t look like a cop. With her dress, heels and her leather jacket.. she wasn’t prepared to answer a call.
A light was on in a house as she walked down the street. The only house on the street. Sara figured that was the one. She shivered and walked up to the door, knocking. The light in the house went off. Frustrated, Sara knocked again.
"This is a New York City Police officer, I received a call on a break and possible gunfire." Pounding on the door, she got no answer. The door creaked open. No one was on the other side. Frowning, Sara stepped back, turned, and walked back down the stairs. I need to get out of here.. It was stupid to come alone.. As she hurried back to her motorcycle, she heard the click of a gun from behind her. Frozen, Sara tensed.
"Yuh, you must be that homicide detective we were lookin’ for.. turn around, lass." The voice was rough and heavily accented Irish. They must be from the Irish Massacre she thought, as she slowly turned around. The Witchblade was silent. When she turned back to face to unknown follower, she found there was more than one. Six stood in the darkness, burly men with iron pipes, chains or the first man, with a gun. He grinned; his mouth was full of broken teeth. His raised his chin arrogantly. Damnit, Jake.. why did you have to leave me alone tonight? She wondered, watching her captives closely. No one moved.
"C’mere lass," he said, motioning her forward. As Sara took a slow step forward, he added, "..And ditch the gun." He grinned. Sara sighed, reaching into her jacket. The group tensed. The man raised his gun and trained it on Sara’s chest. "Slowly," he said. Sara nodded, drawing the gun out, she set it on the ground. Kicking it to the side, she walked towards them. The group closed in. The man kept his gun at her chest. Sara smirked.
"..So, you’ve heard of me," said Sara, casting her smirk at the main with the gun. He nodded. "Is that why there’s six of you? To kill one homicide detective? Doesn’t say much for your skills, does it, boys?" The man with the gun narrowed his eyes.
"Heh, yeah, we heard you were tough as nails. Though.. you do look awfully pretty in that dress.. it’s a shame we have to kill you." He glanced at the man next to him. "Maybe we’ll have ourselves a little fun before then, huh?" As the man with the gun walked towards her, Sara spun and kicked the gun out of his hand, then ran to the side, grabbing her gun as she went. The man cursed.
"GET HER!" The yelled with a growl, shaking his sore hand. The men dispatched and took after Sara. The Witchblade remained silent. Running in a dress and heels was not Sara’s style. She hated it, and would’ve changed had she been given the time. She heard a gunshot behind her and felt the bullet slam into the back of her leg. Crying out, she stumbled and almost fell. The pain burned along her thigh. She felt the blood seeping threw her dress as she ran, felt it stream slowly down her leg. It was the only warmth she felt, her lungs burned as she ran in the cold air, her leg now aching unbearably. Turning around a corner, she reached for the apartment pull down stairs but couldn’t reach. As her captors rounded the corner, the stairs fell down. Looking up, she saw Ian motion her up.
Climbing as quickly as she could with a wounded leg, she managed to get to the top of the stairs. Ian held out a hand and pulled her to the roof. Once there, he knocked her pursuers off the stairs and pulled the stairs back up. They were safe on the roof, for the moment. Sara gasped, stumbled and fell. Her leg was burning, blood was now soaking her dress. Tears brimming her eyes, she reached down and tried to rip her dress, to act as a bandage. Ian knelt down silently, drew another knife, and cut her dress to the top of her knees. With her wound exposed, the air made it throb. She bit her lip to keep from cursing at Ian as he wrapped her leg.
Sara felt her vision fog. She knew she had lost a lot of blood. The pain started to fade away. Suddenly, Ian was upside down.. and spinning. The whole roof was spinning.
"Sara.." Ian's voice seemed far away. Her world went dark. The Witchblade glowed.
Continue To Part Two: Direct Orders